Astartes Second Legion Punisher, serial number Conquered World—117
Universe 117, Solar System, Earth, Human Era, Year 2552 AD.
Humanity had already stepped into the interstellar age for over four centuries.
Since the latter half of the 21st century, with continuous advancents in artificial intelligence, aerospace technology, and other fields, humanity—the intelligent species born on Earth—had finally erged from a hundred thousand years of enforced genetic stagnation and historical amnesia.
Once again, they followed in the forgotten footsteps of their ancestors, turning their gaze toward the vast ocean of stars above. Interstellar colonization was no longer the fantasy of drears; it was proposed as a concrete, feasible plan. By the end of the 21st century, human colonization of the Solar System was in full swing.
Though various challenges arose—colonial rebellions, the rise of space terrorism, internal wars—human civilization, reborn beyond its ho planet, continued its rapid advancent.
By the 22nd century, the colonization efforts within the Solar System had yielded remarkable success. Particularly in 2291 AD, when Tobias Fleming Shaw and Wallace Fujikawa successfully developed the first faster-than-light engine—the Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine.
This engine could fold local spaceti, generating a quantum singularity, allowing ships to enter an extrely dense, multidinsional domain nad "slipstream space" (imaginary space?). This breakthrough enabled long-distance travel within a reasonable tifra.
This revolutionary invention laid the foundation for the United Earth Governnt (U.E.G.)’s first large-scale interstellar colonization ship program, heralding humanity’s capability to step beyond the Solar System and venture into deep space.
In 2362 AD, the launch of the first colony ship, Pioneer, marked the beginning of humanity’s deep-space colonization era—later known as the Diaspora Age.
The initial colonies were concentrated in the Epsilon Eridani system. The first human-settled colony was the second planet in the Epsilon Eridani IV system, which later beca the headquarters of the United Nations Space Command (U.N.S.C.)—Reach.
Alongside Reach, several near-Earth colony planets were discovered and terraford during this period. Due to their proximity to the Solar System, these colonies received significantly greater developnt aid than later colonies. A vast number of citizens and military personnel migrated to these new worlds.
Eventually, this gave rise to a thriving elite society—humanity’s finest in both physique and intellect—creating one of the most prosperous and vibrant sectors of human civilization.
Human expansion continued at an unrelenting pace. By 2490 AD, over 800 human settlents had spread across the Orion Arm of the Milky Way. These worlds varied widely, ranging from highly developed interstellar fortresses to remote, small colonies.
As expansion persisted, near-Earth colonies beca political and economic powerhouses, heavily reliant on outer colonies for raw materials. However, this dependence also sowed the seeds of future division and rebellion.
The outer colonies provided invaluable resources for the growth and developnt of the Inner Colonies and the United Earth Governnt (U.E.G.), yet power and wealth remained centralized within the Inner Colonies.
This disparity in resource distribution naturally bred discontent among outer colony residents, leading to a rise in external independence movents.
As ti passed, these grievances—rooted in political and ideological divides—accumulated, and by the 26th century, nurous outer colonies openly rebelled.
New waves of separatist activities and insurgencies erupted across human-settled worlds.
At this critical juncture, an alien alliance—the Covenant—began its invasion.
Starting with the Battle of Harvest in 2525, the war had raged on for over twenty years. The cumulative casualties and destruction exceeded those of all previous wars in recorded human history.
Even in the face of this existential crisis, many outer colonies remained hostile and uncooperative toward the U.N.S.C. Struggling against the Covenant on multiple fronts, the U.N.S.C. was forced to allocate resources to suppressing insurrections, ensuring the security of critical supply lines.
To swiftly and decisively end these uprisings, the U.N.S.C. deployed not only its Marine Corps but also the highly revered Spartan units, who were actively engaged in the frontlines against the Covenant. These Spartans participated in nurous counter-insurgency and suppression operations.
Among them was a legendary figure of the U.N.S.C. military—Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy, Spartan-117.
And as war inevitably brings death, the escalation of the U.N.S.C.’s suppression campaigns led to mounting casualties among both rebels and military personnel. Hatred between the U.N.S.C. forces and local colonial separatists deepened with each loss of family and comrades.
Madrigal was one such outer colony world engulfed in the flas of independence movents.
A resource-rich planet among the many far-flung human settlents, Madrigal was a Tier-4 heavy water refining world, located in the Libra constellation (23 Lib), approximately 83.7 light-years from Earth.
Viewed from orbit, Madrigal was a vast desert-like sphere, dominated by a dull yellow hue. Pockets of green vegetation—forests and wetlands—were few and scattered, isolated across the planetary surface, reinforcing its desolate appearance.
Across the planet’s seemingly endless arid landscape, nurous half-buried industrial pipelines stretched toward human settlents, remnants of the planet’s extensive resource extraction network.
Despite its harsh desert conditions, Madrigal’s gravity and oxygen levels closely resembled Earth’s, allowing humans to survive on the surface without protective gear.
Sowhere at a heavy deuterium extraction station, a low circular periter wall enclosed the towering drilling platforms. Around them, a small human settlent had ford, providing its residents with basic shelter.
Inside the station’s control console, what was once a standard control room had been hastily expanded, with unnecessary partitions removed to create a spacious open area, sowhat resembling a crude hotel suite.
However, the room was anything but refined. Dozens of people, n and won of various ages and ethnicities, had gathered there.
Black, white, Asian, and Latin—an entire lting pot of humanity.
A glance across the room revealed no bright colors, just a mix of black, gray, and brown, the kind of durable, dirt-resistant tones that suited their environnt.
Their exposed skin bore the roughness of lives spent in constant exposure to wind and sand. Their clothes were simple, muted, and often tattered—stained with sweat and dust—radiating a wasteland-punk aesthetic.
"Fuck you!"
"Eight tis. That’s eight losses. You should be used to it by now..."
"Bullshit! Janka, are you mocking ?"
"No, no, I’m saying you should take a break..."
"The U.N.S.C. on Reach refuses to acquire valuable deuterium through fair trade, instead seeking to enslave us for a permanent solution..." —News broadcast.
The room buzzed with noise as people indulged in their own forms of entertainnt. So operated the drilling console, others watched news or shows, while a few gambled casually over cards.
Young children chased each other in the corners of the room, while a few teenagers were completely absorbed in their handheld gaming devices.
"One more round! One more round!"
An elderly white man, his face covered in a thick, graying beard, grinned smugly as he gathered his winnings.
Shuffling the deck, a Black woman with braided hair—Janka—glanced at him, her tone teasing as she addressed him after shooing away the unfortunate gambler who had lost too much.
"Alright, let soone else play. ’Professor’s’ hands aren’t clean."
"Are you accusing of cheating?" The old white man frowned.
"I’m saying you don’t wash your hands." Janka shrugged, a smirk on her face.
"Hmph. My hands are stained with the blood of the U.N.S.C. Marine Corps..."
The old man—known as ’Professor’—splayed his hands over the rough, unpolished wooden table, fixing Janka with a firm gaze.
His nickna "Professor" was clearly just a moniker, not an actual title.
"That sa old story again, ’Professor’?" Janka shook her head in exasperation as she dealt the cards. "Co on, tell us a different war story. I could recite that one by heart at this point."
"My scars are older than you. I have seen—"
"—I have seen things."
Janka cut him off before he could finish, her words leaving the old man montarily speechless. Seeing the amused looks in the eyes of the onlookers, the old man let out a heavy sigh, deciding against boasting further about his so-called glorious past.
"Fine, fine. No more stories. Just play."
"They have repeatedly sent U.N.S.C. Marine forces and their ultimate weapon—the Spartans—to crush us. But war is not the answer. That is why Jin Ha sent us here. I believe I can negotiate an end to this endless conflict." —News broadcast.
"Turn that idiot off."
Seeing the well-dressed man on the news, and already in a bad mood, the old man slamd his cards onto the table.
The others rely shrugged. While the Black and white mbers of the group lacked a structured cultural tradition like The Classic of Filial Piety, they still held a basic respect for the elderly. Given the old man’s worn and aged appearance, it was clear he didn’t have many years left. A minor indulgence like this was hardly worth arguing over.
"Vinsher Grath is an idiot."
The old man, ’Professor,’ scoffed as he pulled out a small stack of the money he had just won, his disdain evident.
"But he’s also a dangerous idiot. He gives people false hope. His negotiations will fail."
It was clear—this old man was a die-hard separatist, a staunch anti-U.N.S.C. colonial independence supporter.
"Mark my words. The U.N.S.C. will throw everything they have at us."
"You an the Spartans?"
At the ntion of the na, a young man sitting across the card table perked up with curiosity.
Among the rough and rugged survivors of the wastelands, it was obvious that he was a newcor. Though his clothes were just as filthy, his face was noticeably clean, his skin soft and smooth, untouched by the hardships of battle.
"Pffft..."
The old white man scoffed, leaning back with a mocking smirk as he eyed the young man.
"Have you ever seen a Spartan?" Janka asked.
The young man, sensing the amused and skeptical gazes from the hardened veterans around him, felt a little embarrassed. His voice lacked confidence as he replied:
"I’ve seen U.N.S.C. Marine soldiers before..."
"Hahahahaha!"
Laughter erupted around the table. The mood was lively and cheerful—for everyone except him.
"One Spartan is worth a hundred U.N.S.C. Marines..."
Janka leaned over the table, eyes wide and expression dead serious, as if imparting so great truth.
But the old white man, a veteran who had fought against the U.N.S.C., wasn’t about to let this mont slip away. Before Janka could finish, he interjected:
"Ah, but Janka... there’s one more thing."
As the others turned their attention to him, the old man casually shuffled his cards, his tone carrying a deeper aning.
"The biggest difference between a Spartan and a Marine..."
The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, grim expression. The scars and deep wrinkles on his skin only added to the unsettling effect.
The young man, who had been listening like an eager spectator to a tale of war, suddenly froze, his expression stiff.
"Marines can be killed."
His voice was low, filled with ominous weight.
"Spartans... are not human."
"They’re faster, stronger, smarter."
"Nothing can stop them."
"They kill relentlessly, without hesitation, until... there is nothing left!"
His intonation rose and fell, the tension in his voice sending a chill down the young man’s spine. Unconsciously, the young man gulped.
The old man noticed the reaction and seed pleased.
With a grin that was both smug and wicked, he suddenly slamd down a winning hand of cards on the table.
"So... you in?"
The heavy atmosphere shattered instantly. Laughter exploded around the table once again, and the young man quickly realized he’d been played by this group of old rogues.
Just then, a man entered the room—his face weathered by years of hardship, a well-trimd beard, and a hood covering part of his features.
As he approached, the room fell silent.
"Jin Ha."
The old white man greeted him with a grin, nodding in acknowledgnt.
"Tell these kids, ’The General’ knows... there’s no middle ground on Madrigal. Freedom or death."
Jin Ha ignored the old man’s provocation. Instead, he walked straight to the drilling platform console, peering outside for a mont before speaking in a low, serious voice:
"Where is my daughter?"
"She might have gone ou—"
BOOM!
A massive explosion suddenly ripped through the air, drowning out the hum of the drilling station’s generators and the howling winds outside.
Janka, who had just started to answer, froze mid-sentence.
Her eyes widened in shock.
"That was... the direction Kwan Ha went..."
"What?!"
Before Jin Ha could issue a command, an ear-piercing alarm blared, and a young boy rushed into the room, gasping for breath.
"General Ha! It’s a red signal flare! Fired from the northern sector!"
"Lock down the pipelines! Arm up!"
Jin Ha grabbed a 26th-century iteration of an AK rifle, his voice booming with authority.
Chaos erupted.
Dust filled the air.
n roared orders, won scread as they ran for cover, and the rumble of wheeled vehicles and the roar of combustion engines blended into the turmoil.
Despite the chaos, the resistance fighters moved with discipline—a sign of their semi-military organization.
Within monts, only ard personnel remained in the settlent. They took positions behind cover, rifles at the ready, forming defensive lines at the periter gate.
At the last mont, just before the gate closed, a teenage girl—her long black hair tied into a ponytail, a backpack slung over her shoulder, and her face and clothes sared with blood—ca sprinting toward them in a panic.
"Dad! Dad!"
"Kwan, hurry!"
She barely made it inside as the gate slamd shut behind her.
"Dad!"
"I was just near the forest... They ca out of nowhere! They killed Kara and Esso..."
She collapsed beside her father’s modified jeep, still shaken and breathless.
"How many U.N.S.C. soldiers?"
Jin Ha spoke in his native language, gently wiping the blood from his daughter’s face as he tried to comfort her.
"It’s not the U.N.S.C., Dad!"
Kwan Ha stomped her foot in frustration, stamring as she tried to get the words out.
"It’s... it’s...!"
WHOOSH—BOOM!
Suddenly, a flash of blue light illuminated the area.
The ard guards positioned along the settlent walls instantly disintegrated—their bodies bursting apart like overripe waterlons, reduced to splattered red-blue plasma and flesh under the blistering onslaught of energy weapons.
The scene was both horrifying and strangely surreal, burned deep into the minds of the survivors.
"RUN!"
Jin Ha roared.
BOOM!
Molten tal splattered as plasma fire erupted, its sheer force propelling it backward.
Amidst panicked shouts of "Take cover!" and "Watch out!", another blast wiped out half of the group defending the main gate.
"Who the hell is attacking us?! U.N.S.C. Marines? Spartans?!"
Panic set in.
They hadn’t even laid eyes on the enemy, and yet in re seconds, their comrades—people they had fought beside for years—had been reduced to shredded corpses.
So, miraculously still alive, lay writhing in agony—missing limbs, flesh charred by molten tal.
Their agonized screams gnawed at the already crumbling morale of the survivors.
"Raaahhh!" Exterminate all witnesses! (Sangheili language)
"Awoo!" Yes, Commander!
As the smoke cleared, they finally saw their enemy.
A horde of towering, humanoid aliens with grayish-blue skin and mandibles split into four distinct jaw sections erged from the haze.
The Sangheili, the warrior caste of the Covenant military—what humans called ’Elites.’
Most of them wore sleek blue armor, while a select few were clad in heavier brown armor, signifying a higher rank.
At the center, flanked by his warriors, stood a colossal Sangheili clad in crimson armor, his helt adorned with an imposing crown-like crest—the Elite Commander.
"Awoo! Awooo! Awooo~!"
We are Sangheili, not those disgraceful brutes, the Jiralhanae! The relic must be secured—no mistakes!
At the Elite Commander’s command, the massacre resud.
The human resistance fighters quickly realized—their conventional ballistic weapons were useless against the Elites’ energy shields.
anwhile, the Covenant’s plasma weapons tore through them with ease.
The settlent beca a bloodbath.
Plasma bolts struck flesh, igniting fountains of crimson mist.
The air was filled with the stench of burning at, as limbs, viscera, and charred remains littered the battlefield.
The ground was soaked in fresh blood, still steaming from the plasma’s searing heat.
"Raaahhh!"
Suddenly, the Elite Commander stiffened, sensing sothing.
He looked skyward.
Above them, a dropship emblazoned with the black eagle insignia of the U.N.S.C. was descending rapidly.
BANG!
The hatch blew open.
And then, sothing massive fell from the ship.
A towering figure slamd into the ground, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.
He was clad head to toe in dark green armor, his helt matching the sa deep olive hue.
A golden-orange visor covered his eyes, his entire body sealed within the armor’s unyielding shell—an impenetrable fortress of steel and composite plating.
A stark white inscription was spray-painted on his left breastplate:
117.
"Awoo, awoo!"
It’s him. The Demon.
"Awoo, awooo~"
No wonder those idiot brutes failed... How did the humans know of our mission? Is he here to steal the relic?
It seed all too likely.
The Elite Commander did not hesitate.
"Raaahhh!" Kill him!
The Spartan stood motionless.
He had no idea that he was taking the bla for an Astartes tactical recon squad.
...
anwhile, beyond Madrigal’s orbit...
In a hidden corner of space, a sudden burst of light illuminated the void.
A colossal warship—its design starkly different from both Covenant and human architecture—erged from slipspace.
"Report. Detected traces of Universe 117’s human civilization."
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